Love as a verb. Love as a commitment.
But no matter what you call it, it seems that every couple has two stories- the edited one to be shared from the couch and the unabridged version, best left alone.
There simply is no way to tread these dangerous waters.
She says that everyone creates a version of her life that she wishes were true and tries to believe.
He was just the wrong guy for me at the time. Nothing more, nothing less.
Deep down, I am also repenting. I am proving my love. I am renewing my vows. I am safeguarding my marriage. I am choosing Andy.
Underscoring all of this is Leo – his constant presence in my mind, along with the troubling realization that I deeply associate him with the city and vice versa. So much so, in fact, that leaving New York feels an awful lot like leaving him.
I ever stop loving him the way you’re supposed to stop loving everyone but the one you’re with? If the answer is no, then will the lapse of time or a change of geography really fix the problem? And regardless of the answer, what does the mere question say about my relationship with Andy?
I desperately want to feel that way again. To be in a relationship that I’m not trying to script or water down. It’s about wanting something real – even if it’s messy and complicated.
I still find myself reaching out and knocking twice on our wooden cutting board. Because you can never be too sure when it comes to the things that matter most.
I once offhandedly mentioned that I wanted to pick out my own ring, something I have to look at every day, but there is something decidedly unromantic and a little bit depressing about having a symbol of love reduced to such scientific classifications – especially classifications focusing on imperfections.
I’m not really shy. I’m an introvert.” I went on to explain the difference – the fact that being around people didn’t make me uneasy, I just preferred to be alone most of the time.
But that’s the thing about the sucker punch; the sucker element hurts worse than the punch.
I close my eyes, wondering whether we are ever truly blindsided by misfortune. Or, somehow, somewhere, in the form of empathy or worry or a premonition deep within ourselves, do we feel it coming?
I think about the thin, fragile line separating all of us from misfortune, almost as a way of putting a few coins in my own gratitude meter, of safeguarding against and after happening to me.
A big mistake. The kind of mistake that brews resentment and dangerous fissures. The kind of mistake that makes your heart ache. The kind of mistake that makes you long for another choice, the past, someone else.
We may not get do-overs in life, but we can always have fresh starts and new beginnings.
Second chances are rare and wonderful.
That nothing can be real when marred with so many lies.
After all, you reach the mundane, comfortable moments only when a relationship is working. When it’s not working, the passion morphs into something twisted and dark. Drama. Jealousy. A never-ending power struggle.
At some point, though, I gritted my teeth – literally – and told myself that was no way to approach life. I had to stop panicking. If I didn’t calm down and believe in myself, at least a little bit, how could anyone else?